


A Case of Stars

by Noblestar



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noblestar/pseuds/Noblestar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a new case about a mysterious man with many faces-- a man who calls himself The Doctor. Could this man be the same one that he met when he was a boy? Could he be the one who haunts his dreams? Does Sherlock have to know about the Solar System after all? (WIP)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Stars

It hadn’t been a very eventful day, John thought. In fact, it had been rather dull. Sherlock had spent the entire day in his chair, gazing at the ceiling with glassy eyes. John had learned to expect this kind of behavior from him. In the beginning he had tried to talk to Sherlock, but he was often ignored. John supposed this was better than Sherlock’s seemingly abandoned tendency to abuse drugs when bored. It took many a whispered conversation with Lestrade to finally discover this. 

That morning when John emerged from his bedroom and found Sherlock sprawled on the chair, he simply nodded and put the kettle on. Although he rarely acknowledged it, John always made a point of making Sherlock a cup of tea. So there the cup sat, lonely and cold and untouched, and there John sat on the couch, frowning at his flat mate.

“Are you going to sit there the whole day?” John asked, his voice cracking a bit from lack of use. Sherlock looked slowly around at him, his eyes dead.  
“Yes.”  
“Don’t you have any cases? What about the O’Connoly case?”  
“Finished. It was the nanny.”

John sighed. He might as well stop asking now, or Sherlock would be irritated. It had been two weeks since his last case, and Sherlock was becoming more and more despondent each day. John worried that one day he would wake up and his flat mate would be in a coma.   
John drummed his fingers on the table. He needed to find Sherlock a case. Even if he had to make one himself.   
Hey, that’s an idea— John’s thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the door buzzer.   
“I’ve got it, dears!” Shouted the voice of Mrs. Hudson from downstairs. John heard the soft murmur of voices coming from downstairs, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. Seconds later, John was blinking up at the figure of Mycroft Holmes.   
“Hello, Sherlock.” Mycroft greeted his brother, smiling coldly. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and rolled his eyes, returning his gaze to the ceiling. Mycroft sat down in the chair across from Sherlock, leaning his umbrella against the chair.  
“Come from the bakery, have we Mycroft? I do hope you can get that custard stain from your lapel.” Sherlock’s voice was dull.   
Mycroft glanced at his lapel, narrowed his eyes, and tugged a hankercheif out of his pocket. Dabbing at his lapel, Mycroft placed a Manila envelope on his lap. 

“I have a case for you. One that we need help on.”   
“It’s probably boring. Stop wasting my time, Mycroft.”  
“I’m sure once you learn about this one, you won’t consider it a waste of your time.” Mycroft seemed to be satisfied with his job of removing this custard from his jacket, so he returned the hankercheif to his pocket. John thought he could still see a faint smudge of custard, but decided not to mention it. 

Mycroft pulled a couple of pictures from the envelope. From where John was sitting, he could see that they were pictures of three different men.  
“These pictures are all of one man. We believe he has had multiple cosmetic surgeries in the past five years. This man has sabotaged many major operations. From what we understand, he goes by the title The Doctor.” At Mycroft’s words, Sherlock sat bolt upright and stared intensively at his brother. 

“I take it you know him?” Mycroft remarked, an eyebrow quirked. Sherlock sprang out of his chair and dashed off to the bedroom. Several minutes passed in which John and Mycroft sat in silence, confusedly staring at the opposite walls. Sherlock returned abruptly, wearing his coat and scarf. Moving swiftly, he snatched the folder from Mycroft’s hands and dashed down the stairs. John heard the door slam with a resounding thud and looked perplexedly at Mycroft. Mycroft looked as astonished as he felt. Shaking himself out of his stupor, John grabbed his coat, which was slung across the couch, and shrugged it on.   
“Best not to go after him John, he’ll return soon enough.” Mycroft said frostily, his expression returning to one of cold indifference.   
“I just want to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” John replied, and left Mycroft standing there, looking incredibly out of place. 

 

Sherlock sat alone in the café, his hands, folded as if in prayer, resting lightly on his chin. He had to order something, or he would have been kicked out. This wasn’t the policy for all customers, but ever since Sherlock had gotten into a fist fight with a Serbian drug dealer in the café, the shop owner had made it very clear what his feelings toward him were. The cup of coffee sat steaming on the edge of the table, and Sherlock thought that it would be nice to drink down the scalding liquid, warming his throat against the frigid air outside. But that would mean breaking his rule. He never consumed anything whilst on a case, and now he had one.   
Sherlock was seated next to the window, which was partially frosted over and therefore difficult to see out of. But it was immaterial to Sherlock. What he was looking for would be easy to see a mile away. 

Sherlock had met the Doctor once, when he was seven years old. Over the years Sherlock had convinced himself that it was a highly vivid dream, but now it was clear that it was not. He was almost positive that he was in a dream right now, or he was schizophrenic. After all, normal people didn’t see strange men jumping out of disappearing police telephone boxes. 

On the night when they met, Sherlock had been downstairs in the kitchen, reading about a murder case in the newspaper, and trying to piece it together. He had been very careful not to wake Mycroft or his parents. He was perched atop a stool which was a couple feet too tall for him, which was saying something because he was already incredibly tall and lean for his age. He was just beginning to work out which of the neighbors had killed the daughter when he heard a peculiar noise. It was a kind of wheezing, whooshing sound, and it was coming from the den. Carefully, keeping to the shadows. Sherlock moved into the den, hardly daring to breathe, his mind moving at a mile an hour. How had this noise not woken anybody up?

Then, he saw it. It was a huge police call box painted an electric shade of blue, and it was… pulsing? It was fading in and out of sight at the pace of a heart beat. Then it stopped. All was quiet. Sherlock reached out a tentative hand to see if it was, in fact, solid, but at that precise moment the door was pulled open, and a man with disheveled hair and wide eyes jumped out. Sherlock sprang back, stumbling over a coffee table. 

“Who are you?” Sherlock was frightened, but his voice was steady and firm. The strange man widened his eyes and raised an eyebrow, whipping around so his long brown coat flapped at his ankles. The man smiled at Sherlock suddenly.  
“Hello! I’m the Doctor!” He stepped forward and held out his hand, but then dropped it when Sherlock didn’t take it.   
“What’s your name?” The man called the Doctor asked, in a kind voice. But Sherlock was wary.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” He said in a voice that gave nothing away. The Doctor’s eyebrows jumped into his hair.  
“Really?” He asked, in a tone that sounded genuinely surprised.   
“Yes, really,” Sherlock said in an annoyed voice. “Who are you?” He asked again.  
“Well, like I said, I’m the Doctor. I’m a time traveller. I’ve just been visiting Winston Churchill.” The Doctor said, with a slight smile. Sherlock blinked. It was true, it was impossible to deduce anything about this man. He had never been able to not deduce anything about a person before, could this be the reason why? Sherlock shook his head rapidly.

“That’s ridiculous. And I suppose this is your spaceship?” He scoffed, gesturing towards the blue box. But he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t believe the Doctor.  
“Why, yes actually. Would you care to have a look inside?” The Doctor held open the door of the blue box. Sherlock stepped inside, and gasped. It was a hundred times bigger on the inside. There was a gigantic circular console with all sorts of strange gadgets. There were several staircases and hallways. Sherlock shut his eyes for a long minute, and when he reopened them the Doctor was there, grinning down at him. There was only one explanation.  
“Are you an alien?” He asked breathlessly.  
“Yes, very good!” The Doctor said enthusiastically.   
“What are you doing in my den?”  
“Well… it was a bit of a mix up. Sometimes my ship can make mistakes.” The Doctor glanced reproachfully above him, as if his spaceship could see his expression.   
The Doctor placed his hand lightly on Sherlock’s back and gently led him out of the spaceship. Then he knelt down in front of him.  
“It’s been a real pleasure meeting you Sherlock Holmes. You’ll grow up to do amazing things. You’ll change the course of history. Just watch where you step, all right? I don’t want you falling off anything prematurely.” The Doctor stood up and offered his hand to Sherlock. He shook it. With a grin, the Doctor stepped backwards into his ship.   
“Say hello to John Watson for me, won’t you?” And he closed the blue door.  
Once again, the noise started, and within less than a minute, the blue box was gone.


End file.
